


Feel

by neversaydie



Series: cock it and pull it [2]
Category: King Falls AM (Podcast)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Anxiety, Friendship/Love, M/M, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-22
Updated: 2018-02-22
Packaged: 2019-03-22 09:00:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13760721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neversaydie/pseuds/neversaydie
Summary: Sammy is sober. Period. Fact. Set in stone.He doesn't drink, he doesn't smoke, and drugs are definitely off the table.That hasn't always been the case.





	Feel

Sammy is sober. Period. Fact. Set in stone.

He doesn't drink, he doesn't smoke, and drugs are definitely off the table. 

That hasn't always been the case. 

He's been sober since he finally kicked the bottle during his first few months in King Falls (and hadn't  _ that  _ been a fun experience, to find out he really couldn't host all night and then drink all day if he didn't want to, y'know, actually die), but his nine months go down the fucking toilet on what Ben insists on calling his 'Sammiversary'. 

Chet produces a flask of something that smells like a bad idea and tastes like the worst kind of bottom shelf scotch and it's just so, so easy for Sammy to take it when it's handed to him. The liquor burns just like it always did, and he laughs easily while Ben splutters and gags against it even as a chill settles into Sammy like he's coming home. 

This is how it goes. First a chill, then his ears will burn, then the world will get just that little bit further away. The veil will come down and that fuzziness will make everything feel so much better. The gap opens between him and the rest of the world, its sharp  _ everything  _ slipping back into something softer, something muted, something he doesn't have to feel so keenly, and it doesn't feel like a big deal after that to just take another sip, and…

And then Emily is taken. 

And then Ben is on leave. 

And then Sammy… isn't sober anymore. 

He does sober up periodically, of course. Does his best to keep himself together and maintain appearances, stay professional. Hates himself intensely for all the lost hours of daylight and every hungover appearance at the studio, and especially for the times when he couldn't wait until the end of the show to start drinking and ducked into the bathroom during a commercial with the trusty flask he swore to himself he'd never, ever pull out from the box of Jack's things in the bottom of his closet. 

Ben is distracted by Emily's disappearance, or Sammy knows for a fact his friend would have noticed. He's tried to be subtle, done his best to remain clear eyed and level headed and not sound intoxicated on air while Ben scribbles in his notebook and ducks out to make mysterious calls and generally loses it. Sammy has to hold it together for the both of them, because he can't let another friend down. Not again. 

Ron turns up at his house one evening, when Sammy is hungover as hell and only recently awake after making the mistake of picking up a call from his mom and then saying  _ fuck it  _ and drinking the day away until he threw up and passed out. Ron doesn't look all that surprised to see the state of him (perhaps he was a little sloppier on air last night than he meant to be, he really needs to get a handle on himself because Jack would be so disappointed) - plants Sammy on the couch and brews some strong coffee and pours a metric ton of sugar into it when Sammy looks like he might hurl all over again. 

"I got twelve years," he explains gruffly, after taking in the greasy glass on the table and the dregs of amber left in the bottle on the counter. "Didn't take you for the type, but I ain't blind."

"I'm sorry, Ron. Jesus, let me just…" Sammy goes to move the liquor out of sight, but Ron rolls his eyes and pushes him back onto the couch like he's being ridiculous. Sammy guesses he wouldn't stay sober long with the company he keeps if he couldn't handle being around booze. 

"I was, uh, I wasn't out. Back then. Guy I was in love with left me and…" he makes a vague gesture, like the rest explains itself. Maybe it does. "I didn't have anywhere to put it, so I shoved it down. Things stopped mattering, y'know?"

He does, Sammy thinks. He really does. 

"Jack," he chokes out, at length, trying not to get too emotional over the name he hasn't said in a long fucking time. God, even through the pounding hangover he wants a drink. "My… his name was Jack. Is Jack."

Ron doesn't even blink when Sammy uses the pronoun. Maybe he's not as subtle as he thought. He always made Jack be so careful, discreet,  _ quiet  _ about what was between them. Has he failed him now?

"You guys break up?" Ron probes, gentler than Sammy might expect. There's nothing unmanly about heartbreak, he supposes. 

"No, he…" it's been years since he's had to tell this story, and he has to press an unsteady hand over his mouth for a second before he can continue. Ron just waits, patient and concerned. "He went… missing. I… I don't know if he's still alive… or…"

Sammy can't make himself say it, can't control the hitching of his shoulders until Ron pulls him into his arms - not a burly macho hug, but cradling him against his broad chest like he knows. He knows. 

"I got you, brother," he murmurs, and Sammy wishes he could pull himself together because he's soaking Ron's plaid shirt but nope, this dam isn't closing any time soon. 

Much to his surprise, Ron doesn't try and make him stop drinking. He makes pointed noises about drinking water and taking B-vitamins, even turns up at the station with a bottle of supplements when he's not convinced Sammy will do it for himself, but apart from that he's as gruff and hands off as ever. Sammy's not sure what he expected, but the fact Ron knows he's a complete mess and doesn't hate him kind of… helps. 

Sammy actually gets it together for a while after that, sort of. Having someone know about Jack makes it easier to breathe, even if they never talk about it. The fact Ron will catch him looking down or zoning out of a conversation and clap him on the shoulder or nudge him back into consciousness, just a small gesture to let him know he's seen, means Sammy relies less on the bottle and more on his friends. Even if he can't tell them why he's so damn secretive about his past.

And then he's fighting with Ben what feels like every day. And then the show is starting to lose all structure and even Shotgun Sammy can't keep it on the rails. And then he reads the notebook. 

_ Who is Sammy Stevens.  _ As if he fucking knows.  
  
It's a spectacular crash and burn, all his tentative getting his shit together undone by one simple question. Four little words. 

It should be a full bottle night, the one after he storms out of the station while they're still on air. Something in him breaks and all the professionalism Jack drilled into him even back in the Shotgun days just... runs out.    
  
The roads are empty, that's his only defence for breaking into his flask before he even gets down the mountain. He loathes himself as he does it, can't stop picturing how disappointed Troy would be if he caught him as he takes a burning gulp of whiskey, but his hands are shaking and the crushing panic in his chest is too much to bear. Ben doesn't trust him. His best fucking friend, the one person he thought really, truly gave a shit about him, despite the fact he can't bring himself to talk about the past.   
  
For a minute there, Sammy felt like King Falls was home, like he could get back some of the life that left him when Jack did and have a breath in his chest and a pulse in his veins again rather than live like the shell he has been. But he's not that lucky. Never was.    
  
When he pulls up outside Ron's place (and why the fuck he goes to Ron's, he doesn't know, except that he doesn't feel safe on his own and Ron… Ron is safe), the guy storms out pissed as all hell. He hammers off the porch and practically hauls Sammy out of the car, seemingly torn between kicking his ass and hugging him.   
  
"You dumb son of a bitch," his shoulders seem to sag with relief when he realises there's no damage to the car, before he grabs the side of Sammy's neck and holds him in place while he looks him over. It's a rough touch, the kind which would usually send Sammy flinching away and trying not to cower, but he just watches Ron check him over because - he realises numbly - nothing about the man scares him. "The hell're you thinking, tearing off in the middle of the night? You could've got yourself killed."   
  
"He doesn't fucking trust me," Sammy realises when his voice comes out - cracked and strained like he's been yelling - that he's still panicking. He's going to lose Ben, just like he lost Jack. Ben's going to summon the lights on this suicide mission and he doesn't even trust Sammy to tell him about it before they take him away. "He's my best friend and he doesn't..."   
  
"I know, I heard it," Ron is still scowling, despite being physically reassured that Sammy's in one piece. He slides his hand up to cup Sammy's jaw furiously, forcing him to listen, and Sammy realises with a jolt that Ron was genuinely worried. "That ain't a reason to get your fool ass wrapped around a tree, you hear me? Call me next time, don't drive if you're... dealing with shit."   
  
He doesn't say drunk. Beneath his jittery panic, Sammy is somehow offended by that.

"I can take care of myself," he tries to find some solid ground, dig into whatever's left of Shotgun and push Ron away for daring to care about him. He finds himself stepping closer instead, like he's squaring up to fight because how fucking  _ dare  _ anyone try to fill the bruise-tender void of caring Jack left, but Ron's hand doesn't leave his cheek. "I don't need your  _ sympathy _ , I can handle  _ dealing with shit  _ on my own." 

"Sure. And you can drink yourself to death all on your own too," Ron looks him square in the eye and doesn't flinch, even as Sammy tries to physically shove him away - the fight or flight of a wounded animal. Ron just catches his arm and holds him there, immovable as granite. 

He tries to yank himself out of Ron's grip once, twice… and then before Sammy knows what he's doing, he's surging forward to kiss him. 

It's not gentle, a rough clash of tongues and teeth as Sammy tries to jolt away and Ron keeps hauling him back in. Ron holds him steady and lets him struggle and thrash until the fight wears out and there's just Sammy, kissing him. 

Sammy, letting Ron push him through the front door and into the bedroom. Sammy, sprawled out over the bed and asking Ron to make it hurt because he hasn't felt anything since Jack left. Sammy, coming apart as Ron digs his teeth viciously into his shoulder and shoves his face into the pillow so hard he can't breathe. Sammy, flinching from touch when Ron tries to hold him after, curling in on himself like he doesn't deserve to be treated gently. 

Ron doesn't let up. First Sammy tolerates the hand tracing circles on his back, then the arm slowly creeping across his waist, then Ron is spooned up behind him with all his solid, reassuring bulk, and Sammy forgets he doesn't deserve to be held. 

It should be a full bottle night, but he wakes up at noon without a hangover, and without Ron. There's a note on the counter announcing he's gone to work at the bait and tackle, signed absentmindedly with a kiss. 

Sammy stares at it the sloppy X for a long time before shaking himself out of it. He slips the note into his pocket when he leaves. 

**Author's Note:**

> hmu on tumblr @imadoctornotadipshit


End file.
